


John Munch and Retirement

by temporalDecay



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Black Humor, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Munch, Fin and the wonderfully magical adventures and shenanigans leading up to and after Munch's retirement from SVU.</p><p>Features John's eyesore of a couch, Fin's copy of The Complete Works by William Shakespeare, a murderous Jack Dempsey, a very unwanted sense of deja vu, and the carefully choreographed mental dance required for John Munch to file for a fifth marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Munch and Retirement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts).



> For my husband, who's slowly owning up to his obscure ships, and for Rie, who puts up with me more than any sane human being should.

The couch had seen John through four marriages, six apartments, seventeen relationships, four Jobs and three cities. The couch was also ugly as sin and Fin never missed a chance to bitch about it when he was annoyed at something wordless and immaterial that he couldn’t direct his fury at. John liked to lie on the couch as long as he was, one arm folded behind his head, and hum in all the right places whenever Fin went off about stains of dubious origins that he’d much rather not think about at all. It was also nice to lay on when he woke up too early, and do a bit of reading before he got ready for another long day at the precinct. 

He almost always woke up too early, at least when there wasn’t a case keeping him and Fin up until the wee hours of the morning, scouting out clues in some deranged back alley of the city. Mostly because Fin had a habit to go running at an unholy hour every morning and unless he was otherwise exhausted, Munch was a light sleeper. He looked up from the book as Fin walked in, and offered a half smile as his partner’s nose twitched, heralding an incoming rant. 

“I finished the paperwork,” he said, taking advantage of the fact Fin was busy drinking coffee, to derail that particular morning’s spiel. “For my retirement.” 

“I’m sure you did,” Fin snorted, putting down the mug and going to sit on the armchair that wasn’t old enough to be in a museum, and which consequently didn’t look like it’d been pulled out of a garbage truck. John’s mouth twisted a little, and he reached with one long leg to kick Fin’s knee for the comment. “Man, you’ve been saying that for years. You’ve been saying that since before we moved in together.” Fin grinned a little, leaning back. “Hell, you’ve been threatening to retire longer than I’ve been threatening to marry you.” 

“Well, you can pray lightning will strike twice on the same spot,” Munch replied, lips twitching into a half smile, “but I won’t be marrying you until I’m senile enough to not know any better.” 

“Just carry your scrawny ass into the shower, will you?” Fin rolled his eyes. “It’s nearly six and we wouldn’t want to be late on the day you finally hand in your retirement papers.” 

“Oh no, we might be late, the sheer horror,” Munch deadpanned, folding his ankles over the armrest, “it’s okay, Fin. You can admit you can’t stand the dashing sight of me half naked thrown over the couch, ready to be ravished like a virgin bride.” 

“And here I was trying to be a gentleman and not mention it,” Fin deadpanned back, one eyebrow arched, “I mean, the flannel pants, baby, I can barely stand it.” There was a minute pause. “Literally.” 

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong—“ 

“ _Whatever_ ,” Fin shook his head, raising a hand as Munch scoffed, then reached out to shove Munch’s legs to the side. “I’m making breakfast, so do me a favor and don’t finish the hot water. Again.” 

“I think the water heater’s gonna retire too,” Munch muttered with a smirk, shaking his head. He sat up after a moment, stretching until his back cracked in protest, then slumped forward, arms on his knees. “I _am_ retiring.” 

Fin looked at him for a long, long moment, measuring his words, which was one of the things Munch liked best about him. Then he put the mug on the counter and shrugged. 

“I know.” 

And sank into the depths of their tiny kitchen, because he wasn’t sure there was anything else he could say. 

  


* * *

  


They didn’t really talk about it, on the weeks leading up to the announcement. They’d never really been fond of soul-bearing conversations, from the beginning. Fin knew the Carter case had rattled Munch. It had rattled him pretty badly, too, but maybe it’d just been the right force at the right time to make Munch throw the towel. It was weird to think about it, Munch not being in the precinct. It wasn’t like they didn’t spend more time than anyone would consider healthy together, as it was, but Fin didn’t really like the idea of losing his partner. They were partners in many ways, but there were lines all over the place that they’d never cross. It was different, hanging out with Munch at work, arguing about a case or a witness, and hanging out with Munch on Sunday mornings, arguing about groceries and laundry and whatever ridiculous conspiracy theory Munch was going to spend the day educating him on. They were partners at work, roommates at home and every once in a while, a bit more. He wasn’t quite sure how it’d gone down that way, from meeting Munch for the first time and being intimidated enough that he spent his first week at SVU wearing a suit to match, to telling Munch to stop bitching about his landlord not renewing his lease on a technicality and offering him a room til he found somewhere else, to automatically putting the prick as his emergency contact and giving him power of attorney when he reviewed any paperwork. 

Odafin Tutuola was a practical man, he found things that worked and stuck to them for as long as he could. He and Munch worked. They worked on a professional level and on a personal level, and the worst part about the whole thing is that he respected Munch too much to say one word about how upset he was about the idea of him leaving SVU. Because Munch deserved it. Munch had done and said too much and he’d fought long and hard, so if he wanted to throw in the towel, he had every right to do it. And Fin kind of really loved the smug asshole too much to say anything that could be misconstrued as guilt tripping, so he didn’t say anything at all. He went about his normal routine, relishing the snide remarks and the constant deadpan, bitching out Munch’s abomination of a couch and leaving his sneakers by the door after a run, just because it made Munch go on a tangent. They went to work and did their job, like it was nothing, and deep down Fin wondered if there was going to be a snag on the paperwork, like there’d been with his transfer. If there was going to be something standing in the way, forcing status quo. 

The transfer was another reason he kept his mouth shut about Munch’s decision. Munch had let him put in for the transfer with just a theatric sigh and a comment about how he’d be partnered with the newest, greenest rookie Cragen could find, and wouldn’t _that_ be fun? He’d understood that Fin had felt he had to leave, or Elliot was going to get strangled. Munch had looked at him in the eye, when he told him, shrugged pointedly and stolen one of his fries. So Fin owed it to him, to be respectful and supportive and get his own crap under wraps. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” Fin said, taking a thoughtful bite out of his hot dog. 

Munch hummed and slurped loudly at his soda. 

“I don’t know if I should go with the obviously phallic angle or take another jab at your cholesterol levels.” 

“Ass,” Fin snorted. “I _mean_ , I’m going to miss stakeouts with you.” 

“It’s okay,” Munch grinned, lopsidedly, “be a good boy and I promise I’ll take you out on a date every now and then, when the DA’s working my ass and I need someone with a gun around.” 

“Yeah, yeah, rub in the fact you only use me for my gun,” Fin retorted with a grin that matched Munch’s. “Break my heart, why don’t you?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Munch sniffed disdainfully, “I don’t keep you around for your _gun_.” He looked at Fin over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows arched in a way that made Fin choke on a mouthful, which then made him splutter somewhat. “I keep you around because you’re young,” there was a short pause, “young _er_ and you have _stamina_.” Fin punched him in the shoulder, scowling, and Munch laughed between his teeth, looking smug. “Hey, hey, if you break it, you buy it.” 

“That’s okay,” Fin said, laughing somewhat, “that’s part of the plan. It’s called dowry.” 

Munch didn’t have to say anything, really, which only made Fin laugh harder. 

  


* * *

  


At the beginning of Munch’s last week in SVU, they’d gone home only to find a UPS visit notice in the postbox. Munch had squinted at it, while Fin had ignored it and just stumbled into the apartment in a bee line for the couch. Yes, it was an ugly fucking eyesore of a couch but it was comfortable and his back was killing him. Besides, Munch was the one that got mail and parcels, because Munch signed up for magazines and clubs and had a strange talent to keep people interested enough to write every now and then even after he’d done his best to push them away. Fin had a family that didn’t talk to him and seemed to be happier for it, so he tried not to think about it. 

“Son of a _bitch_.” 

Munch stomped over to the couch and Fin sighed, slowly squirming out of the way so he could sit down, before slumping against his side, chin hooked on a bony shoulder. 

“Do I even want to know?” He asked with a sigh, looking up at Munch with a certain hint of wariness. 

The last thing they needed was someone mailing them a bomb. Which admittedly hadn’t happened yet, but Fin figured it was Munch’s paranoia rubbing on him, because he was pretty sure it was all a matter of time. 

“Stanley Bolander is hooked up to an oxygen tank 24/7 in a godforsaken nursing home somewhere in Maryland,” Munch snarled as he threw the page to the side and leaned back and against Fin, “and he’s still bullying my ass, the fucking bastard.” Fin made an inquisitive sound in the back of his throat, as Munch rubbed his eyes with his fingers, pretending not to notice the tears. “He sent me a fish.” 

Fin blinked in surprise. 

“I didn’t know you liked fish.” 

“I don’t,” Munch deadpanned, turning his head to bury his face into the crook of Fin’s neck, “I really, really don’t like this one either. It’s the same fish – well, not the same because that’d be messed up, even for Baltimore standards – but the same type of fish that nearly screwed up my third marriage before I was even married.” 

Fin stared. 

“Did he send you _the_ fish?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Munch snarled, vibrating in place with sheer anger, like a lankier, bonier Chihuahua. 

Fin wrapped his arms around him and buried a snicker against an ear. 

“We could drive down on Saturday.” 

“Stanley Bolander is not a circus freak,” Munch growled, trying to get out of Fin’s hold, mostly for show since he leaned back against him after a moment, ranting under his breath as he glared at the wall, “he’s not a one-man act you’re supposed to drive across state lines to witness in all his splendor.” 

“He’s your friend,” Fin smiled, eyes half lidded as Munch made a sound of outrage in the back of his throat. “Lewis is coming to the party, we could drive back down with him. I’m sure Liv’d love to babysit your fish.” 

“Sure,” Munch muttered snidely, “drive me down to Baltimore with a Homicide detective so that when I murder Bolander they’re already there to book me in.” 

“Anything for you, baby,” Fin grinned, and then barely dodged an elbow to the gut. 

Reluctantly, Munch joined his laughter with a few acerbic chuckles, still muttering about fish and partners and being too old for the abuse. 

  


* * *

  


The first day of his latest retirement, Munch woke up as he always did, with Fin trying – and failing – to sneak out of the room for his morning run. It was almost endearing how very misguided he was, about his perceived stealth abilities. He made a rightful racket all the way to the front door, mostly because he wouldn’t be properly awake until he hit the second block and the rush of blood in his veins really got his brain going. On days he was feeling particularly benign, John Munch dared consider it an endearing quality to his otherwise gruff partner, but he knew better than to ever mention it, because if there was one thing Odafin Tutuola didn’t do well was embarrassment. 

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, Munch rolled around in the bed for a bit, soaking up the last bits of warmth before shuffling into the cramped living room. Their place wasn’t that small, if one were to be truly honest, it was just cramped because it was filled with enough crap to fill two apartments. There had been a time where it was very obvious where his stuff ended and where Fin’s began. Back in the days when he kept up the pretense to look for a place of his own, and Fin bitched about his couch with a tad of honesty behind his complaints. But then work had gotten hectic and while money wasn’t exactly short, he kept postponing looking at new places until the weeks became months and by then Fin’s lease was due to be renewed, and somehow Munch found his name included in it, as well. 

Now, mixed with his history books and the studies on this or that conspiracy, there was Beckett and Mamet and Shanley, and he’d gotten used to finding Fin’s well-worn copy of Shakespeare’s _The Complete Works_ plopped about somewhere, usually somewhere one would not normally perch an open book. They’d gotten rid of a good deal of stuff, after the second year, when Munch gave up pretenses of leaving any time soon and Fin started threatening to take all his boxed stuff to Good Will, if he didn’t sort it out properly. But Munch had enough crap to fill in six lifetimes, and now it was all carefully spread in between layers of Fin. 

“You’re a sad, sad man, John Munch,” he told himself, sitting on the couch and staring at the shadow box propped up against the wall, half hidden behind an armchair. 

He was still mostly lost in thought when Fin came back, wide awake and dripping sweat. It was a nice look on his partner, he had to admit, though Fin was surprisingly skittish about sex and Munch rarely felt the need to torment him about it. But he could look, and he’d always appreciated a nice view. 

“Why aren’t you in the shower?” Fin snapped, slipping off his shoes – and leaving them _right there by the door_ , which always made Munch twitch on reflex – and hurrying to the bathroom without waiting for an answer. “Cragen called, we can get breakfast on the way.” 

Munch blinked a bit as Fin disappeared, leaving the door wide open. Then he sighed loudly and stood up before he ruefully shuffled his way after him. He found Fin naked and under the spray, too hurried to wait for it to heat up. 

“Munch—“ 

John reached with his hands, grabbed his face and pulled him in for a long, languid kiss that didn’t stop until Fin as sagging against him and the water had finally started to steam. 

“I’m _retired_ ,” he said, with a strange satisfaction as Fin tried to hastily put his brain back together. 

Fin’s spluttering face, just the barest hint of heat over the bridge of his nose, made it all worth it and Munch exited the bathroom with a snicker, thumbs hooked on the waistband of his pants. 

He didn’t even care when his victory exit was ruined by Fin’s sweat-drenched shirt landing on his head. 

  


* * *

  


On his fourth day of retirement, John Munch went to feed the pigeons. 

He’d been an old man for a long time, he was willing to admit to himself at least, but he’d never felt old enough to actually go feed the pigeons. But here he was, less than year shy of seventy, with a bag of crackers, a thermos of coffee and the vague, sinking feeling that he wasn’t doing this the right way. He was mildly disappointed. He was an old, cranky, knowledgeable man. At his age, he was supposed to be some shadow-y mentor for the next generation of radical shakers and movers that would finally hopefully kick the rotten axis of society off. Or so he’d thought, when he’d been nineteen and sleeping in large piles of naked bodies inside a van with its own smoke cloud in the ceiling. And to do that, it was indispensable that he offered his council at the local park, feeding the pigeons and being as inconspicuously conspicuous as possible. 

It was not meant to be. 

He ate more crackers than the pigeons did, in the end, and when he finished his thermos it was barely eleven. He packed up and headed back home, intent on spending the day on exploring other youth predictions about his old age and what he should do with it. 

He watched four hours of _Judge Judy_ instead, and staunchly refused to feel pathetic or self-destructive because of it. 

  


* * *

  


The seventh day of retirement saw John Munch walking out of the precinct with a thoughtful look on his face. He moved away from the door but took a minute standing by, replaying the incident over and over again until he finally allowed himself to chuckle wryly at the idiocy of it all. He was just turning to leave when Fin caught up with him. 

“Oi, Munch,” he said, smirking lopsidedly as Munch stood tall and looked down at him with a mock-outraged look, already braced for the remark he knew was coming his way, “missed me so damn much?” 

“Delivering evidence, actually,” Munch replied, feeling a sadistic twinge of smugness as Fin’s expression furrowed in a mixture of concern and suspicion. “I was just reminded this morning that I have the uncanny gift of making people drop evidence into my hands, for some unholy reason.” 

“Yeah?” Fin squinted at him. “How come this miraculous gift didn’t show itself when we actually needed evidence falling from the sky to solve a case?” Munch shrugged. “Thought so,” Fin said, and, much to Munch’s surprise, started walking down the street with him. “So what evidence did you deliver anyway?” 

“I just spent two hours explaining this,” Munch muttered, somewhat peeved, but before Fin could take it back, he sighed and give him a sidelook that let him know the annoyance wasn’t aimed at him. “I walk out of the dry cleaner and this kid, can’t be older than seventeen, slams into me around the corner. Didn’t quite manage to knock me off my feet, but he takes one look at my face and shoves his backpack into my hands before taking off like the hounds of hell are at his heels.” There was a very dramatic pause that made Fin arch an eyebrow; he knew better than to ask what happened next, that was the kind of rookie mistake that any of Munch’s partners had learned early on and lived on to regret. “His backpack included two coloring books, a glock and twenty five grand, cash.” 

Fin stared. 

“You’re pulling my leg.” 

“I am most assuredly not pulling your leg,” Munch sniffed disdainfully, “you’d know if I were, believe me.” Fin rolled his eyes. “At least it wasn’t his dope.” 

“ _What_.” 

“Is it my face?” Munch sighed theatrically. “Tell me the truth, Detective Tutuola, I can take it. Is it the face? The ears? The suits? What about me screams scumbag member of the brotherhood of crime that makes these kids drop their shit in my hands?” 

“I’d reckon is the fact you’re so full of bullshit they can smell it,” Fin laughed, and then laughed harder as Munch smiled viciously. “Go home, Munch, you’re not drunk, but I think you should be.” 

“Do I look like a suburban housewife to you?” He stood up tall as he was, flaring his nostrils in disdain. “Breaking out the margaritas before noon?” 

“That’s literally the last question you want me to answer,” Fin leered mockingly, one eyebrow arched, “particularly, outside the precinct, in public. Go home, old man.” 

Fin reached out to lightly punch Munch’s shoulder in lieu of kissing him. 

“And just who are you calling _old_?” 

  


* * *

  


The eleventh day of retirement – or more precisely, the late eleventh evening of retirement – John Munch came upon a very important realization. 

“I’m such a battered spouse,” Munch muttered between panting breaths, arching his back and rolling his hips in a purposely lazy rhythm to offset the frantic pace Fin kept trying to get into, because he was a bastard and Fin liked it anyway, “I think it’s cute when you’re angry and I love it when you take it out on me.” 

“Can’t be a battered spouse,” Fin grunted, fingers digging into Munch’s thighs as he tried to keep his balance, “haven’t married me yet.” 

“Oh, _that_ ’ll make me want to marry you,” Munch barked a laugh, and then a moan, as Fin shifted inside him and the pleasure finally started to overwhelm the list of tiny annoyances that kept distracting him, “Become Mr. Mrs.-Tutuola, get battered every day.” 

“More like fucked, really.” 

Fin leaned in and bit his collarbone, hard enough to leave a bruise and make Munch writhe until he came with a sharp exhale and a shiver down his spine. When it was over, Fin slumped on Munch, not unlike a boneless cat. Munch fingered the knots of tension at the base of his neck, humming thoughtfully. 

“You are a few decades too late, to tempt me into a marriage with just sex.” He paused for a moment, as Fin choked on a disgruntled laugh. “Even if it’s great sex.” 

“You know how to flatter a guy,” Fin said, closing his eyes in defeat. 

They laid there for a moment, basking in the warmth and the last echoes of endorphins, before Fin shifted first and Munch swore under his breath. Sex was wonderful as it happened, but once the high died out, it was the same sticky mess it always was, and Munch remembered why he didn’t pester Fin for sex every time he actually thought of it. 

“Realistically speaking,” he asked, pensive, as he watched Fin drop a condom in the wastebasket and was suddenly attacked by the ridiculous familiarity of it all, “how likely am I to talk you out of your misguided marital illusions?” 

Fin stopped by the doorway, back tensing visibly at the words. 

“Just say no,” he said, after a moment of consideration, “and it’ll be no.” 

Munch sighed and slumped back against the pillows. 

“Did you know that you need to submit proof of all previously terminated marriages and civil unions to get a marriage license in New York? That’s about four pounds of paper to prove how hard I fail at it.” He folded an arm over his face so he didn’t have to look at Fin’s expression. “I also think you’re entitled, nay, required to sit through the twelve hour How Being Married To John Munch Ruined My Life seminar my ex-wives put together. It’s very informative, and the key to any good relationship is informed consent.” 

“Do you even listen to the shit that comes out of your mouth?” Fin snarled in a tone Munch didn’t know how to interpret, mostly because he was still refusing to look at body language to help him decipher the mood. 

Recklessly, he went on. 

“Say we file the license tomorrow, we get married on Saturday and I take you to ogle McKellen and Stewart in _No Man’s Land_ on Sunday in lieu of an actual honey moon,” Munch lowered his arm enough to risk a look at Fin’s face. Fin was giving him the tried and tested squint that let Munch know he was threading on thin ice. “You’ll be threatening to strangle me by Monday and suing for alimony by next Friday.” 

“Right,” Fin said, leaning against the doorway, cautious because Munch hadn’t blown up yet, and until he did, he was loaded and dangerous as any gun Fin had ever known. 

“So how about this,” Munch smiled wryly and rolled to his side of the bed and the nightstand there. He pulled a handful of papers off the drawer and offered them to Fin. “how about I forget about the four hours I spent today pitching a fit at the Clerk’s office webpage and instead of dooming ourselves to horrors beyond compare, we just call these an early birthday present?” 

Fin ignored the papers and moved in to kiss Munch into submission. 

“How about next time you just say yes, and give me a heads up so I can buy the goddamn rings in advance?” 

Munch scoffed and refused to answer. 

  


* * *

  


They didn’t actually get married that weekend, because work got in the way, though they did go to the play. (It would be eight months, four near misses, three misfiles at the Clerk's office and one hospital stay before the stars aligned, work relented and schedules fit.) 

Munch said it was fate. 

Fin told him he was full of shit. 


End file.
